Centuries of conflict in Mali’s central regions have left deep scars, none more enduring than the memory of villages encircled, cut off from supplies and movement until surrender. From the wars of the Ségou State to the Caliphate of Hamdallahi in the 19th century, these strategies of isolation were once temporary tactics of war. Today, however, they have evolved into a deliberate system of governance under the influence of the Katiba Macina, an armed faction linked to the Group for the Support of Islam and Muslims (JNIM), which orchestrated a major attack in the country on April 25th.
The study Living under Siege: Cases from Areas Under JNIM Influence in Mali, published in December 2025 by the Stockholm International Peace Research Institute (SIPRI) and the REcAP network, examines how these blockades function as tools of control rather than mere military closures. In the regions of Mopti and Bandiagara—specifically in Marébougou, Saye, Kori-Maoundé, and at the Parou-Songobia bridge on National Road 15—the blockade disrupts mobility, agriculture, commerce, education, gender relations, and even local authority structures. Its purpose is clear: to make life unbearable for those who refuse to comply.
In these areas, fighters impose what locals call a benkan, a term in the Bamanankan language typically meaning a pact or compromise. In reality, however, this is a one-sided set of demands: forced payment of the zakat (Islamic alms on harvests and livestock), closure of schools, mandatory veiling for women, bans on music, and restrictions on social ceremonies. The local terminology masks a coercive system where threats and violence dictate the rules of survival.
Marébougou’s brief defiance
Across these villages, the strategy is consistent: suffocate resistance until submission or resignation becomes inevitable. Yet the methods vary based on local power dynamics. When armed resistance is weak or dismantled, blockades can force surrender. But where self-defense groups persist, isolation intensifies into a prolonged siege, with civilians bearing the heaviest burden.
In Marébougou, within the Djenné district, resistance collapsed in 2021. Residents rejected the Katiba Macina’s demands, including school closures, mandatory veiling, bans on certain markets, and agricultural and livestock levies. Their defiance stemmed partly from regular security patrols and the presence of a donso (traditional hunter) camp. Between 2019 and 2021, central Mali saw a surge of confidence in self-defense groups, often framed as grassroots anti-terrorism. Some leaders even enjoyed ties with security forces, enriching themselves through cattle theft and extortion under the guise of protection.
Marébougou’s resistance was short-lived. After the self-defense fighters were defeated in October 2021, a six-month total blockade was imposed. Access to markets vanished. Travel on roads became perilous. Fields were nearly impossible to cultivate. Food shortages escalated to the point where even salt—a normally abundant commodity—became scarce. The village eventually accepted what many viewed as a survival pact, not out of conviction, but as a forced adjustment to end the deaths from starvation and restore minimal mobility for essential supplies.
Targeted assassinations of influential hunters
The blockade’s grip extended beyond Marébougou, devastating the broader floodplain delta, including the districts of Djenné and Macina in Mopti. The defeat of self-defense groups eroded public trust in their ability to resist, while the delayed response of security forces emboldened Katiba Macina fighters to pressure neighboring villages like Sofara, Macina, and even Niono. In addition to harassment, the group carried out targeted assassinations of influential hunters—some of whom had led the mobilization for the Marébougou battle. The jihadists accused them of collaborating with security forces and seizing resources from herders, including cattle and access to water points and grazing lands.
The unyielding resistance of Saye
In Saye, the blockade, which began in 2023 and intensified through 2024 and 2025, crippled economic and social life entirely. While the dynamics mirrored those in Marébougou, the response was different. Rejection of the benkan was stronger and more sustained. Residents argued they owed no allegiance to an external religious authority, especially since they considered themselves “good Muslims.” Beyond religious defiance, many had already lost most of their assets—crops burned, livestock stolen, weekly markets blocked—leaving nothing to protect by submitting. Resistance in Saye was organized around traditional authorities, youth groups, and donsow fighters.
The blockade confined men to the village perimeter. Those who ventured outside risked abduction or execution. Women, perceived as less threatening, could sometimes slip out to gather food, firewood, or straw for mats and fans. Yet this fragile freedom did not shield them from structural violence. It highlighted how blockades reshape social roles and risks, forcing entire communities into survival mode.
Saye’s historical significance amplified its defiance. Having resisted the Ségou power in 1782, the village became a refuge for displaced people from other areas starting in 2023. This sudden influx overwhelmed local food and medical needs, straining already weakened public services in Djenné and San. The blockade wasn’t just containment—it was a calculated humanitarian overload designed to break resistance.
Kori-Maoundé’s uncompromising stance
In Bandiagara, Kori-Maoundé has been under blockade since 2018 due to the presence of Dan Na Ambassagou, a self-defense movement that refuses any negotiation with jihadist groups. Local authorities—village chiefs, imams, and mayors—adhere strictly to this radical line. No direct dialogue with Katiba Macina has been attempted, and the blockade has grown increasingly punitive. Targeted attacks, assassinations, travel restrictions, and bans on transporters stopping or picking up passengers have isolated the village.
By 2024, access to fields was nearly impossible. The blockade serves a dual purpose: controlling the territory and sending a message to perceived enemy strongholds. Like in Saye, Kori-Maoundé draws on collective memory of resistance—particularly the Battle of Kori-Kori in April 1892, a decisive clash against French colonial troops that marked the fall of Bandiagara. For both fighters and villagers, the idea of submission is unthinkable, despite escalating pressure from Katiba Macina. The village has also become a haven for displaced people from surrounding areas.
The plateau’s topography and the presence of the self-defense group have slowed direct offensives, but they haven’t halted the village’s gradual strangulation. Civilians pay the price for non-negotiation by fleeing to Bandiagara, Sévaré, or Bamako—or by enduring increasingly precarious conditions where they remain.
The pivotal role of mediation
In Marébougou, neighboring mayors acted as intermediaries between the village and the fighters. In Saye, however, no such initiatives took root. In Kori-Maoundé, Dan Na Ambassagou’s influence precludes local mediation, and regional reconciliation teams remain disconnected from the village’s realities. This comparison reveals a critical truth: blockades are not just military tools. They depend on the presence and capacity of political, traditional, or religious intermediaries to transform armed confrontations into dialogue. Without mediation, violence persists.
Education, agriculture, and livestock: the pillars of survival
In all three villages, schools represent far more than learning spaces. They are pillars of family life, social hubs, symbols of hope, and tangible evidence of state presence. In Kori-Maoundé, Marébougou, and Saye, the arrival or pressure from armed groups led to teacher displacements, school closures, and student dispersal. School closures aren’t collateral damage—they’re part of a broader shift where the withdrawal of administration paves the way for religious or armed rule. When a school vanishes, it’s not just education that declines; it’s an entire collective future that diminishes.
The first and most devastating impact of blockades often strikes agriculture. When fields become inaccessible, farmers are attacked, or harvests are burned, rural economies collapse. In Marébougou, only fields near the village remained cultivable. Elsewhere, insecurity drastically reduced arable land, forcing households to rely on external supplies—supplies that became impossible to obtain due to the siege.
Livestock and cattle trade, which complement agriculture, also suffer under blockades. Mass cattle abductions destroy families. Weekly markets, vital to the economies of Ségou and Mopti, become rare, dangerous, or inaccessible. Women, who often manage market gardening, food processing, and small trade, see their autonomy shrink. Blockades don’t just destroy income—they sever the exchange networks that sustain these territories.
Community bonds as lifelines
Yet living under blockade is not only about suffering. Our research reveals essential forms of mutual aid that sustain survival: shared food, water distribution, care for the sick, task-sharing, and support for vulnerable households. In Saye and Marébougou, many describe strengthened community bonds in the face of adversity. These solidarities don’t eliminate hunger or fear, but they temporarily delay the total collapse of social fabric. They prove that residents are not passive victims—they actively shape their survival by creating local protection mechanisms in the absence of the state.
Marébougou, Saye, and Kori-Maoundé expose a harsh reality: in Mali, blockades are no longer mere tactics. They have become instruments of territorial control, weaponized to govern through fear. By controlling roads, markets, schools, and social norms, armed groups reshape daily life. Though they don’t occupy every village, their influence increasingly dictates how people live, work, and survive. From forced surrender to prolonged resistance, from flight to pragmatic arrangements, the question remains the same: how do you live when everything that connects a territory to the outside world—roads, fields, schools, markets—can be cut off at any moment? In Ségou and Mopti, blockades don’t just cause shortages. They impose a political order rooted in fear.